Raining Cats and Dogs
by weevily-biscuits
Summary: Old drabble revisited just for fun; it will definitely prove to be the cat's meow. Dougal Siepp and his Cat Theatre have come to town to challenge Kenny Harris' notorious Dog Theatre. And on a rainy day, all of Royston Vasey goes to the movies. Will their choice of company for the day be feline or canine? Episodic composition with multiple chapters featuring various characters.


**T**here had not been this much liquid in the streets of Royston Vasey since the great nosebleed epidemic two years back. Puddles seemed to sprout from the asphalt of the deserted roads like weeds; impromptu fits of laughter from the water skidding down the drains crept up to the ears of individuals hiding under umbrellas much too urban for the bleak rural environment. It had been raining for so long that day that the hours passed had seemingly gotten as soaked as the collars of one's raincoat. They had successively melted into one another like the moist had passed from the linen into one's hair and onto the skin. Everything that could float had done so long ago; from newspapers to amateur photographs of couples framed in playing cards. Things had hardly been this wet since the vet went up the wrong corridor at the delivery of a calf, and even then, there had been enough blood in the woodwork for the wood lices and any eventual wooden coffin to call the misfortunate cow a relation. It was raining cats and dogs today in Royston Vasey. One could launch an armada from one's window with all that water beneath it, but nobody bothered.

**T**he water was doing its outmost to obliterate the fresh graffiti plastered onto the barred façade of the old butcher-shop. The new accusations of murder brought upon H. Briss and his non-existent son seemed to pour from the bold letters in red skeins, much similar to blood abandoning a shipwrecked vessel in a road-kill carcass. Lines, lines and lines seemed to smear the posters of days gone by and dubious paraphernalia gone missing. Across the street, the lipstick-red word 'female' inserted in an advert for volunteers had been capitalized in the sign still ornamenting the window of the charity shop. Just a stone throw from that glass pane, the branches of the tall pine trees and the leaves of the oversized shrubs in the garden of the Windermere were weeping like they never had since they and Judith Buckle moved from the greenhouse. A bird flew headfirst into the derelict ochre sign crowning the now mute and maimed Joke Shop. Shaking itself dry from beak to claw like a wet dog, it would have made a laughing stock of itself, if only somebody had noticed in time; it could have contested the standing jokes of Geoff Tipps, the plastic worker with the plastic face and less plastic jokes.

**S**peaking of dogs: the rain is a salty enough one, to be sure, but as a local being, you couldn't be barking up the totally wrong tree, if you swapped grey clouds for white popcorn for an hour or two. Kenny Harris' Dog Theatre had always provided that refuge, showing everything remotely canine, spanning from _Lassie _to _Lady and the Tramp_ on a weekly basis. But competition had arisen like the drooping clouds over the unsuspecting city. Douglas Siepp had returned. Once a fateful ally of Mr. Harris', he had after pledging years to canine entertainment now vowed to establish a more feline selection of movies. Hence, the Douglas Siepp Cat Theatre opened its doors for appreciation of _Aristocats _and the Cheshire cat in _Alice in Wonderland_, just opposite the premises of the Dog Theatre. Was there to be a catfight or a dogfight in Vasey? Nobody knew for sure. All the minions knew was that they would be distinguished by what movie they went to; or most importantly, where they went to. It was no longer enough to show local movies for local people. One of history's oldest questions had finally imposed itself on Vasey: do you like cats, or do you like dogs?

**W**ith sands of his sand-dyed hair glued to his moist forehead and his once yellow jumper sporting what had in less than five minutes grown into an unappealing shade of piss-pot curry, Mr. Matthew Chinnery bounced from one theatre to another with a blissful smile blossoming on his lips. Never before had there been such variety in the field of bestial animation! What a delightful treat on a day where all creatures great and small would be tucked away in barns and beds! Could he but express his joy by wagging a tail and purring indefatigably at the same time! For how, just how, could he ever choose one cage over another? In keeping with his work as the local veterinary surgeon, the two buildings before him were the equivalent of zoos. As everyone in the town knew, either by bitter experience or personal experience, he and his work were inseparable, though that was not necessarily meant as a compliment. He always did his very best to assist all those in need. But somehow his good intentions always manifested themselves as cry havoc. A run of hard luck, to be sure. Someone had to have them, after all. Yet his had lasted for as long as he could remember.

**F**rom his stance in the door, Harris dubiously eyed the wheat-locked wet vet. He wasn't exactly keen on the idea of having the accident-prone Chinnery on the premises. That man and his run of bad luck made a flat bicycle wheel look like a horseshoe in comparison. As the vet turned in the fashion of a wind-veered bird and skipped towards the cat theatre, he raised his jaw and met the eye of Dougal Siepp with mischievous glee. 'Be my guest to that one,' it seemed to say. 'With all likelihood, it will be the last thing you do in this town.' Across the puddles, the lantern-tall Siepp lit up by the sight of the vet with beards of water stinging to every possible follicle and pore in his skin and on his hair. The vet's reputation for making the worst of bad situations had preceded him, to be sure. But business was business. And contrary to dogs, cats were pragmatic. They knew how to adapt themselves. "Do step inside, Mr. Chinnery. Such a great vet shouldn't be dogged by this ghastly weather." He politely offered his arm to indicate the way inside. Chinnery chuckled with a coy smile and tousled his hair slightly, leaving a film of water on his hands. "You flatter me beyond my merit, Sir. Yet I best follow your advice. What use is a vet to his patients, if he is the worst for wear himself?" the man jested, barely sending a porcelain cat parachuting to the floor from the nearby counter as he shed his coat. With but an inch of the table left under the figure, Chinnery managed to steady it. He looked towards Siepp with an apologizing grin. "Cats always land on their feet." Siepp nodded curtly. "They certainly do."

**M**aybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. The sooner he got the man seated, the movie running and the doors closed, the better. Before the owner ventured to seal the entrance from the discouraging weather, Siepp thought he saw Harris briefly raising a hand with intertwined fingers to him. He was on the point of making a most profane gesture when he realized that it would be the very thing Harris was begging for. He chose to play the upper hand and sent him a bow.

**T**hat afternoon, the velvet upholstery on several chairs in the Cat Theatre was permanently ruined with smudges of dirt as a scared sparrow trapped inside the theatre started throwing itself bodily at the walls under the showing of _Garfield_. Mr. Chinnery pursued it to no avail for one and a half hour, jumping from chair to chair like a boy chasing a butterfly. Apart from having forced their fellow movie-goers to watch a shadow constantly flitting back and forth on the large screen, man and bird had come to some mutual understanding when the lights were switched on again. Clenching on to his prey, Chinnery carried it out from the theatre with Siepp's eyes sticking to him. "And henceforth, you are free to explore the movies of nature." He told the bird and threw it in to the air like one would a dove. Having failed to notice that its petite wings had snapped under the pressure of his fingers, the shocked bird lost altitude faster than those infernal raindrops. Prompted by Siepp's dubious eyebrow, Chinnery gingerly ventured forth to the lifeless bird. "Oh dear, oh dear." The bird meeting its end on a wet pavement was certainly unexpected. He muttered to himself and turned his gaze to Siepp. He smiled and shrugged. "Poor fellow's just tired." Chinnery said half-heartedly. Siepp nodded to himself. If fatigue was all that man had induced into that bird, it would still have met a better end than all the stuffed turkeys and grilled chickens in the world.


End file.
